Gone
by frankiebaby
Summary: Corny Collins deals with the fall-out from integration as well as his own past indescretions...kind of angsty, touch of sex n' scandal, implied character death. Please review!


He hadn't known it would come to this. Jesus _Christ, _he had no idea it would come to this. Not in a million years. Not in his adopted home, this….haven of sorts for him. Sweet, calm, picturesque, suburban, pristine little small-town Baltimore…

Jesus _Christ. _

Police and fire-engines lined the street, as they had been for hours, blocking off alleyways and suspicious corners, officers shouting orders to each other; the mob had been pushed back, but not far enough. He could still hear voices—the harsh, unyielding baritone of the whites, the pure, resonant angry tenor of the Negroes. Ugly words filled the air from throats raspy with smoke and sweat and fury and arson and exhaustion; and although it was nearing dusk, the street in front of WYTZ Studios was lit as bright as day. Trash, beer cans and other curious remnants of marchers, protestors and vandals remained; a shoe here, a pocket-book there, a hat, a pair of glasses with shattered frames…

Yet, Dean 'Corny' Collins was stumbling about in a half-burned studio, a kerchief tied around his mouth. He knew breathing in the fetid air would probably be the death of him, as the firefighters had warned; and still here he was, frantically packing film reels into boxes, taping them up, loading them on a hand cart. He hadn't done such manual labor since he was fourteen and working for his father, he thought grimly once or twice; and his body let him know that, rather viciously. His lithe, toned dancer's body had no real place lifting boxes and hauling carts, not anymore. Grit clung to his arms, chest and hair. His eyes were stinging from the soot and dust, but he was almost glad. If anything, it would be an excuse for red, watery eyes and the tears currently making sharp tracks through the dirt caked on his cheeks.

Fuck. He hadn't cried since he was fourteen, either. Fuck, fuck, _fuck. _He somehow managed to jam his finger while stuffing a particularly slippery roll of film into a case, then cursed aloud, shaking the offending member. A drop of blood appeared, and he stuck the digit into his mouth through the handkerchief, ignoring the rim of oily black under the nail. "Shit!'

Where _was _Spitzer at a time like this, anyway? It was his responsibility to protect his files, to have gotten them out of here at the first sign of trouble…. "Fucking coward," Corny bitterly cursed the absent station-owner, wiping his brow. "_Coward!" _his voice was on the verge of hysteria now, and he knew if he didn't get out of there fast….the smell of smoke and destruction was overwhelming, now. But…it was true.

Cowards, all of them. Cowards! Spitzer, Velma, the council kids…one lick of trouble and they ran. Ran and hid, and let this boil over into…this hell.

_This isn't your station, Collins. Hell, it's barely your show. Why do you care?_

The answer came to him without his bidding, a soft, mocking whisper in his ear. This was his dream…hell, had been his dream since he was a scrawny runaway from New York City with a big mouth, decent voice and a way with girls that made him wonder why on _earth _he was still disease-free. It was…yeah, a dream. And it had felt so right that night when Inez and Link were just tearin' up that stage, so goddamned right…

Now, four months and one dead Negro later…and what crime had Seaweed J. Stubbs committed? Trying to give that little white girl some love, when she'd never had any from either mother or father? The crime was unsolved, still. But the people of Baltimore had their suspicions, and both sides reacted accordingly.

The Old Guard of Baltimore had finally prevailed, through. They always did, as he'd learned the hard way. Velma Von Tussle and that daughter of hers? Probably having the last laugh, now.

He sucked in a breath of air, only to discover that there was little to be found; the thick kerchief, combined with the sooty air, made it near-impossible to breathe, and Corny felt as if someone was sitting on his chest. Stumbling blindly for the door to the film archives, he flung it open and somehow made it through the main studio and down the hall, bursting through the double doors and sinking on the stair.

Corny ripped off his mouth-guard, coughing and spitting dark phlegm into the street; he felt a little better, but not significantly so. He pressed his head to his knees, struggling to contain himself, and…well, God, could he pray, even at a time like this? How could he, when he'd been punished for doing what he'd thought was right?

"Jesus," he began anyway, quiet under his breath. Couldn't hurt, right? Wait, how'd it go again? "Our…Lord? No, our Father. OurFatherwhoartinHeaven…" he began, crossing himself instinctively.

Suddenly the street became almost eerily silent; the police cars for the most part had turned their sirens off, and the din from the crowds was fading. They'd all been packed off to jail or had fled, he figured, closing his eyes as exhaustion suddenly washed over him. The smell of fire and singed wood and plaster was in his hair, his clothes, his _skin…_

He'd never be free from it, ever. Never would get it out of his pores. Not really, anyway.

Corny didn't know how long he sat like that before he smelled something burning—something else. Sharp and pungent and kinda spicy-sweet, like vanilla, and cloves and….

Tobacco.

The smell entered his nose, curled around a brain that was simply too tired to be surprised; and after a moment, Corny said wearily--

"Whad'ya want, Brenda?"

There was no answer for a long moment; and thinking that perhaps he'd been mistaken, Corny looked up, lifted his chin, and focused blearily at the figure standing in front of the burned-out building. Sure enough, it _was _Brenda. Fun-lovin', free wheelin' Brenda, in a skirt just a hair too snug and a thick cardigan of dusty-rose that did nothing for her pale skin. Her lips, a slash of scarlet, were pursed around a cigarette, and her long legs were bare.

"Care for a cigarette?" she said after a moment, rather indifferently; and he shook his head. Simple motions were becoming harder by the moment; he wondered if that was a bad sign.

Another moment passed; she looked at the stoop as if tempted to join him on it, then eyed the dirt and changed her mind. She leaned on the wall instead, which really wasn't any less filthy, if one took the time to be picky.

"You shouldn't….." Corny was finding it hard to form words…his tongue felt incredibly thick. "…shouldn't be here, Brenda. Not in your condition."

At that, her mouth quirked ever so slightly. "So you do know I'm pregnant. Funny, I didn't think you'd heard me the first time." She stepped a bit nearer, and he felt his throat close up again. His mind was more active than his airway, though, and it slapped him with a number of images. Brenda, touching her stomach, trying to talk to him quietly on set after he'd avoided her for over a week. A flick of the wrist, from him. And finally, her cool, cheerful, defiant announcement, made by his side.

_"How long are you gonna be gone, Brenda?" _

_"Just nine months." _

He winced at the memory; then, he nearly gagged. He really, really couldn't breathe now. "Bren—"

She was looking down at him, arms folded, not unkindly. "What's the matter with you?"

"Had asthma as a kid." This encounter was growing too absurd, he thought. If he died here…God. Too funny for words. One cough, then two-- "Brenda…"

"Oh, shut up." The girl gracefully bent, reached into a valise that he just noticed was by her side, and pulled out a hand towel, a bottle of water. She wet the towel and applied it to the back of his neck quickly; he sucked in a mouthful of air in surprise, and then began to cough. When his hacking fit was over, she handed him the rest of the water silently, and he gulped down half, washing down the grime; rinsed his mouth, poured the rest over his head, then scrubbed at his face with the towel.

Corny still felt like shit, but at least he could breathe now. And see. He blinked twice, allowing the cool water to run into his eyes; they didn't sting nearly as much now. He looked at the towel; it had been…what? Blue? Green? Whatever it was, the color was gone forever. And Brenda's cigarette was gone.

"I think I ruined your towel," he said, voice raspy with smoke and exhaustion. He dropped it to the stoop; Brenda, with a decided lack of emotion, kicked it into the street with one small foot.

"You ruined a lot of things," she said calmly, folding her slender hands, not meeting his eyes. She asked no questions; not about his sorry state, not about the burned studio, not about what the hell he was doing there, when everyone in town was behind bolted doors right now. That…was Brenda, in a way. She'd never expected much from him, never made a fuss when he'd been screwing with her, never asked why the _hell _her thirty-one year old boss had been eyeing her in the first place. She took everything much like she took her dance steps—in stride. Memorized the patterns, made the most of the moves, accepted the consequences, moved on. But this…

"Takes two to tango, baby girl," he said wearily; then struggled to his feet. Christ, he'd been stupid. Stupid, confident, arrogant, horny as hell, and on top of the fucking world. Now, though…

"Takes a pathetic man to make a woman lead." Now, what the hell was that supposed to mean? He was too tired to try and figure it out, now. He'd never been a philosopher, and God knew he wasn't too good at analyzing anything. Had he been, he'd never pushed integration in the first place. Some things just weren't worth all this destruction. Including Brenda herself…

"You really shouldn't be here," he found himself saying, and Brenda was talking at the same time, incidentally. "You know it's yours."

"What?" they both said; and Brenda's small face crumpled. Once again, he hadn't been listening to her. And once again, she'd been reduced to the role of small, smart-mouthed teenager who knew the only way to get noticed was to lift up those petticoats, show a flash of lace and pale skin, let him have his way with her and moan up a storm until he came.

"There wasn't anyone else," Brenda reiterated, her voice dull now. She turned away from him, tapping vamp-red nails nervously on a protruding brick. "Ma kicked me out."

Corny let this sink in for a moment; then, he eyed her. Even in his stupefied state, he had no reason to disbelieve her, he thought with a sinking feeling. Then his mouth opened, and out came, coldly—

"So. What do you plan on doing?"

Brenda's slender back straightened and her head went up, a proud flash in her eyes, much as she'd had that day he dismissed her. "Goin' to New York," she replied, indicating her valise. "Brooklyn. Got an aunt there. I'll stay until I have the baby; then I'll leave. I want to keep…." She trailed off.

When Corny spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle. "You know that's not going to happen," he said simply. They'd take the baby from her. Give it to some Christian couple who couldn't concieve. Allow it to be raised in relative...normality.

She shook her dark head. "Fuck you. It will. I've already got a job, I'll save up while I'm living with Aunt, and then, after I have the baby, I'll disappear if I have to." Brenda looked up, met his eyes with dark ones that were carefully guarded. "I know you don't care, but maybe you will someday," she continued with her usual simplicity. "And I can tell my baby that her father knows where she is."

_Her father. _Jesus. Corny turned away. "That's a bit of a presumptive statement, Brenda." _And who says we're having a girl? _He thought, somewhat illogically.

"I wish you'd died in the studio fire" was her only response, and rather weak at that. Brenda had never been good with the witty replies. Still, she didn't move. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was breathing hard herself. Suddenly worried that the air was having the same effect on her that it had on him, Corny looked up, then stood. "Brenda—" he stopped when he saw the tears on her cheeks.

"It's really gone, isn't it," she whispered, eyes looking larger than he'd ever seen them, and wet; and in an instant, he knew the place had been as important to her as it had been to him. Hell—and at this, his lips curved up slightly-- if the kid was his, in all probability, it'd been conceived here.

"Somethin' like that," he responded; and moved behind her. She leaned into him, almost involuntarily, automatically; and his arms went around her waist, holding her close with an affection that took him by surprise. She was thinner than he remembered, much thinner, as if she hadn't been eating. Her waist was slightly thickened, though—hence the big sweater. Corny dropped his palms to her hips, cupping them through the cotton; and in a final, defeated gesture, he rested his chin on her head.

"You're dirty," she said softly; and the husk in her voice that had caught his attention at first still there; it was no different, that low pitch, so much more womanly than that of the other girls on the show. He'd let himself be fooled into thinking that meant something, into thinking her previous experience with men had somehow made it all okay…she sifted against him, and he felt a jolt that shocked him.

"Please…" her voice was barely audible now, but she turned her head, brushed her lips against his neck; and something inside him snapped. In an instant they were pressed against the walls of the deserted, burned building, him kissing her hard, her slipping her fingers inside his shirt, allowing herself to be lifted, pressed intimately against him. He wanted the human contact, wanted it so badly, so fucking badly--hell if it hadn't been her, it would have been some whore tonight, he knew, but she was here and he was here and--he fumbled at her clothing; he could feel she was doing the same to him, kissing him hungrily. There was a cool last of air as she pushed his shirt from his shoulders-- Christ, were they actually doing this in the street? God knew they'd done it in crazier places, though...

A lone siren blared at the end of the street, bringing Corny back to himself with a start and letting go of Brenda with an abruptness that made her gasp. She sagged against him for a moment before pushing at his bare chest with her now-grimy hands. Her skirt had ridden well above her hips, thanks to his ministrations; her bodice was open, pale soft skin flushed and straining against lace undergarments-- her stomach wasn't the only part of her that had gotten bigger,and he hated himself for noticing. He clumsily pulled her cardigan together for her; she, in turn, reached down and picked up his shirt, handing it to him.

A moment of silence, both sucking in air, silently. Then--

"Brenda?"

No answer. Her cheeks were as red as her mouth—but nowhere near as swollen, he thought ironically, touching his own lips. Christ, but she was an amazing kisser. Then, and now. "Brenda….."

She finally dragged her eyes up to meet his, reluctantly.

"Go to New York," he said, simply.

Something in her expression closed off, even more guarded than before. "I plan to."

Corny, however, shook his dark head, raking his fingers through his hair, dislodging flakes of soot. "No, honey. I meant with me."

If he'd though Brenda incapable of shock, his opinion was certainly changed now. The poor girl stared at him stupidly in obvious amazement; her mouth open. "I thought--"

"Yeah, me too." He looked up at the studio. "I have to go, Bren. Nothin' for me here anymore. And you…" he couldn't deny that he was deeply connected to Brenda, even if just as one of the greatest fucks of his life…she could only improve with age, he supposed. He'd never really cared for her, even when they were at their most intimate, but she was...tolerable. And if this _was_ his kid…

_Bout time you did the right thing in your own affairs, before you try and fix everyone else's, Corny Collins……_

And...hell. Least he wouldn't be so alone.

Brenda was sagging against his side now, looking suddenly exhausted; he picked up her valise with one hand supported her with the other. Her face was streaked with black from her contact with him, and he smiled, somewhat sadly. "You look like a minstrel performer."

"And you look like Old Nick himself." Her eyes were half-closed, now. "Where are you taking me?"

"Home." He paused. Baltimore wasn't really his home anymore. Not after this. "To my apartment, I mean. Then to New York, soon as I can make the arrangements. I used to live there, you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah." His mouth quirked, slightly. "My family's out there." They hadn't seen him in sixteen years, but yeah—they were there. "They'll be good to you, honey." After getting over the shock of their runaway son coming home with a teenage girl he'd _possibly _knocked up and his only stint on live television consumed by the flames of a race riot, that is….

Or maybe he wouldn't look them up. Whatever. The point was, he had to leave.

There was nothing here for him, not anymore.


End file.
